


Home

by LadyDorian



Series: Echoes [1]
Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Gen, Origin Story, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 11:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10898631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian
Summary: It had been some time since the term had held any weight for him. Well beyond the two-and-a-half years he’d spent on the road, back when mom’s home cooking had been a box of mac-and-cheese, and dad’s call for seconds an empty bottle of scotch hurled against the wall.





	Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maskedbandit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maskedbandit/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Palest Blue Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011398) by [LadyDorian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian). 



> For Jess, who's always telling me to take care of myself. Well, this is me taking care of myself.
> 
> Required listening: ["Lonesome" by ELLEGARDEN](https://youtu.be/p1zt93t5a9g)

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had the luxury of indulging in a long, hot shower.

The sensible part of him had left the bathroom door open a crack, in case his new friend— _Numbers,_ as he'd scrawled on a blank sheet of his notepad—needed to get his attention for whatever reason. The smarter side kept checking it every few seconds, in the event he came bearing gifts more dangerous than fresh linens.

And the asshole in him—well, he stayed put until the water turned tepid, long after the last remnants of soap had been rinsed away.

He could stand there all night, he told himself, but it wouldn't change things. No matter what he did, he would never be able to wash off the layers upon layers of mistakes.

He wouldn't even know where to begin.

Questions streamed from the roots of his hair to the very tips of his toes, too quick to grasp and too numerous to wring from his waterlogged skin. He rested his chin against his chest and watched them disappear in a furious swirl, asking once more, for good measure, just what the fuck he'd been thinking.

He hadn't been, came the obvious answer.  

His knuckles stung when he dug them into clenched lids, but it was all he could do to keep from throwing a fist at the chipped tile in front of him. In that moment, in that cramped, unfamiliar space, he hated himself almost as much as he hated the man waiting outside. Hated his stupid generosity, his hideous beige tub, the way he'd looked under the streetlights with his lips curling so easily around that word:

_Home._

It had been some time since the term had held any weight for him. Well beyond the two-and-a-half years he'd spent on the road, back when mom's home cooking had been a box of mac-and-cheese, and dad's call for seconds an empty bottle of scotch hurled against the wall. It hadn't existed past advertisements and vocabulary lessons and the stories told by his few close friends.

And yet, the man— _Numbers,_ he kept reminding himself—had said it like it was nothing. Had even _repeated_ it to make sure he'd fully understood. _We. Are. Going. Home. Now._ Each word delivered with the finality of a past torn to shreds, a piece for every year of his life leading up to that point. Fluttering like snowflakes.

Christ, how the hell did he end up here?

His mind swam in a slurry of disbelief; memories filtered through with the consistency of paste:

_beat his brains out_

_this kid_

_fuck_

_that's some shit there_

_nice work, Wrench_

_Wrench._ That was what they'd called him. He'd watched it ricochet from one pair of lips to another, until it became as indelible as a name carved in granite.

Wyatt Joshua Crawford was dead. Whatever remained of him lay scattered across that alleyway, trampled underfoot as _Wrench_ followed the man called Numbers through the darkened streets, still wondering how he'd gotten to this point. Just how—in the grand scheme of this fucked-up universe—had he gone from practically kicking in death's door to ending up with a job, a _"_ _partner,"_ and a place called _Home_ _?_

He spat out a pathetic laugh and shut off the tap.

 

The clean clothes Numbers had given him were the slightest bit loose and several inches too short, though they did the job of warming his skin well enough after the chill from the shower had seeped in. Whatever gooseflesh remained he smoothed away with the palms of his hands, his eyes fixed on the exit as he tightened the drawstring around his waist and tugged the hem of his shirt back into place. Beyond the aged and peeling wood, Numbers was waiting for him—for _Wrench_ —to emerge from his cocoon like some poor bitch of a butterfly, a sliver of empty space all that stood between him and the ugly inevitability of his future.

Wrench ran his fingers through his damp hair and glared at the narrow gap separating the door from its frame. When he took a step towards it, he couldn't help but notice the tremble in his limbs, the way his hands clutched at the towel slung around his neck. Gradually, he forced them to relax, the towel slipping beneath the weight of his arm and falling to a heap next to his foot. He nudged it aside with the rest of his dirty clothes and turned his attention to the mirror above the sink.

Most of the steam had cleared by then, giving him a hazy glimpse of tired eyes and sallow cheeks, the frown that clung to his lips as stubborn as the mist gracing his reflection. Staring at the curves and valleys of who he once was, Wrench stroked the edge of his jaw with numb fingertips, nails scraping a thin, pale layer of stubble.

He could use a shave, a haircut. A fucking do-over.

Would Numbers have trusted him with a rusty pair of toenail clippers, let alone a razor? He should have asked for one, still. Should have swiped and swung and scratched out entire pages worth of demands. He should have done a lot of things that had slipped his reasoning at the time. If only he hadn't been stunned into submission by the blur of events, the memory of the wind and the alley and that bright, warm smile that had started it all.

If only he had listened to it.

He crammed the image to the back of his mind, dampening his regrets with flashes of Numbers' fancy suits, his slicked-back hair, his beard. For one calm, blissful moment he forgot himself, picturing something as thick and lush on his own face: Bold, optimistic. A new look for a new life.

"...and don't think about trying anything…" Numbers had said after showing him around the apartment. "I sleep with a knife under my pillow." It had hardly read as a warning, the way the exhaustion hung around his eyes—nowhere near as chilling as the look his boss had given the two before sending them on their way. One that seemed to wipe the smile from Numbers' face permanently.

Wrench let his hand fall to his side. It had been a stupid idea, anyway; he'd never been able to grow anything more than sparse, uneven patches. Besides, what use would a beard be if he wasn't alive to enjoy it?

He needed to find a way out of this, his panicked brain yelled back.

His eyes darted around the room, searching for options, weapons—a lone razor blade, a pair of scissors, a shiv taped to the back of the toilet tank—anything other than a plunger and the toothbrush he'd come in with. Christ, he wasn't fucking _Macgyver_. And unless he dislocated one or both shoulders, there was no way in hell he was fitting through that tiny window on the back wall.

Wrench held his breath, thoughts pacing between fear for himself and pity for whatever might happen to Numbers. After all, the man had nearly stepped in front of a bullet for him. Perhaps he should reconsider?

 _Drugs_. He could drug Numbers and slip away while he was passed out. The hinges on the medicine cabinet were rusty and probably creaked a bit, but Wrench was positive he could rifle through it quietly. All he had to do was _try._

When he peeked inside, the only medications he found were a roll of antacids and a bottle containing half a tab of Xanax—one refill remaining, prescribed to Neuman, Alfred Earl.

_Clever._

Wrench shut the cabinet and glanced at the bathroom door.

What choice did he have?

Numbers wasn't going to let him simply walk out without a fight. And even if he somehow managed to make it limping or crawling, how long would it be until those mafia thugs came looking for him? Could he make it to the bus stop? To the state line? To the end of the fucking street?

Could he kill the man who had saved his life?

 _No_...well...he'd need some time to think about it. Have a good night's rest, a fresh meal, another hot shower. The sensible part of him recalled how good it felt to warm his hands over a radiator, to wriggle his toes against the bath mat, to _feel_ like he had something to his name besides a tattered backpack and the few possessions that fit inside. The smarter side told him to make the best of it.

And the asshole in him made sure to squeeze out a large wad of toothpaste directly from the center of Numbers' neatly-rolled tube when he went to brush his teeth.

He'd find a way to get by, he promised; he'd survived for this long.

 

He found Numbers in the same spot he'd left him: Hunched over the kitchen bar and staring blankly into a glass of tequila. He didn't move, didn't so much as lift his eyes as Wrench stepped out of the hallway and into the brightly-lit living room, though judging by the amount of liquid remaining in the bottle beside him, he'd been quite busy since then. His wrist trembled against the countertop, fingers twitching around the glass. For a moment Wrench considered offering him a Xanax, but quickly changed his mind.

There'd be plenty of opportunities for sass in the future. At least he hoped—no, he was _sure_ of it.

Ignoring the sullen lump in front of him, Wrench turned to take a better look at his new prison cell—or living space, whichever fit the bill more appropriately. The apartment was on the smaller side, the initial tour consisting of Numbers pointing in the general direction of things: Couch, fridge, TV, coat rack, bathroom to the back left, Numbers' bedroom across from that. Two steps into the kitchen, another two to the hall, one grand leap to the dingy window at the opposite end of the living room. Everything simple and plain and completely boring.

Except there were subtle nuances here and there that Wrench hadn't noticed before, back when he'd been too wound-up to admire the ridiculous situation he'd found himself in. Things like jagged cracks in the chalky white walls, yellowed outlines where pictures had once hung, copper-colored water stains on the ceiling as odd and intriguing as those ink blot tests. The kitchen table had a large gouge on one edge, and the tall, lopsided bookshelf was packed to the gills with worn paperbacks—Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, among the thicker ones he could make out from a distance.

But all of it seemed to fade into the background the moment his eyes lighted on the sofa.

It had been converted into a spare bed, its wide frame topped with crisp, white sheets, two neatly-folded blankets and a plush pillow. Wrench didn't know how he hadn't spotted it immediately; it looked infinitely more comfortable than any shelter cot or park bench he'd had the misfortune of laying his head upon.

Numbers really _had_ been busy. And all this time, Wrench had been fucking around with his loose morals, entertaining the idea of a bloody, brutal escape.

Shit, he really was an asshole.

He scanned every available surface for his notepad, locating it on the counter to Numbers' right. Its red cover stood out against the pale blue laminate, a shade or two brighter than the deep burgundy of Numbers' shirt. Wrench couldn't remember leaving it there, or talking to Numbers either before or after the latter had shoved some clothes and a towel into his arms and gestured towards the bathroom. But as he approached, his steps grew in confidence, his breathing calm and clear as he strummed lightly on the very corner of the countertop.

Numbers looked up slowly, straightening when Wrench reached for the pad and pen. Thumbing to the first empty page he came across, Wrench found his eyes drawn to the torn ridge at the top, the ghost of Joshua's name— _his_ name—still visible on the lines below.

He swallowed his grief and began writing:

 **Thank you for the shower and clothes**.

It was short and a little too simple, but it was better than saying nothing.

Numbers ran his tongue over his lips and stared at the message for a minute before holding out his palm for the pen. The top two buttons of his dress shirt were open, and in the space between Wrench saw an elegant arrangement of faded black lines—the open cup of a _u,_ an _n,_ a _d—_ its meaning lost beneath silken fabric and thick, dark curls.

He tore his gaze away just as Numbers set the pen down and slid the notepad back.

 **There are fresh sheets and a couple blankets on the futon for you. I moved your backpack and the rest of your stuff to the closet. If you want to keep your clothes, we can wash them tomorrow morning, otherwise we'll just go out and get you some new ones. There's a barber a few blocks away who cuts hair for most of the syndicate guys. We'll get you cleaned up and ready for work. They should be calling with a job for us soon, so try to get some rest. If you need anything, you know where my room is. Don't worry, I'm a** **LIGHT** **sleeper.**

Wrench rolled his eyes at yet another of Numbers' half-assed threats, and scribbled out:

**OK, I think I got it.**

He hesitated, tapping the butt of the pen against the pad before penning a quick follow-up.

**Are you from around here?**

Numbers' brows scrunched together and his nostrils flared. He glared at Wrench like he'd just asked him to donate one of his kidneys.

Itching to fix whatever slight he may have caused, Wrench quickly pulled the notepad back.

**I mean, have you been here long? Working for the syndicate?**

The sensible part of him shouted to stop pressing; the smarter side reminded him that—for better or worse—he was going to have to live with this man.

The asshole in him was too busy wondering how soft that futon was to be of any use.

He silenced all three and spun the pad around, showing it to Numbers.

Something in his words, as innocent and ill-thought out as they'd been, seemed to strike a nerve; the hand that had been resting calmly atop the counter curled into a tight fist, fingers uncoiling like a spring as Numbers flicked the notebook away, leaving Wrench to construct his own answer.

What the fuck was this guy's deal all of a sudden? Did he really expect Wrench to _not_ attempt to talk to him?

Wrench stared at the blank space below his question, bottling up his irritation. Though he was certain some of it still managed to bleed onto the paper, as fickle as the thoughts that scattered through his head.

**Look, you already know my name. Can you at least tell me yours?**

Numbers pressed his lips together and reached for the bottle beside him. He didn't offer any to Wrench, and Wrench didn't think to ask. God knows he could have used it, his heart beating damn near out of his chest while he watched Numbers pen one deliberate letter after another. When he was done, he tossed the pad at Wrench and took a long sip from his topped-off glass, watching him over the rim as he cautiously picked it up.

**NUMBERS**

Wrench read it over again, desperate to uncover some hidden meaning but finding nothing, each stroke cutting across the page with a harsh finality. He shook his head, partly at himself and partly at Numbers.

 **No,** he wrote back, **your real name.**

Numbers set his half-finished drink down so hard, Wrench could feel the vibrations rippling through his fingertips. They slipped from the countertop of their own accord, reeling from the sight of narrowed eyes and lips twisted in disgust, the fury with which Numbers dug into the page before him.

With a flick of his wrist, he flung the pen over the opposite edge of the counter, as though signaling the end of his involvement. And, if that message hadn't been clear enough, he simplified things further by turning and walking away.

Wrench's gaze drifted from the discarded pen up to the hallway on his left, his movements sluggish as he traced the path of Numbers' departure. He knew Numbers wouldn't be coming back—not tonight at least, not a second time—nevertheless, he kept searching the shadows for signs of him, reluctant to face the truth that lay spread across sheets of paper.

He'd glimpsed part of the answer already; the rest flickered wildly in Numbers' every action, bursts of hot and cold, kindness and cruelty, the obvious and the incomprehensible—all waiting to be pieced together into a tidy yet over-complicated puzzle.

 _Great,_ he snorted. As if he didn't have enough to figure out as it were.

His eyes dipped back down to the pen at his feet, and Wrench grit his teeth. It took every ounce of strength not to give into his frustration and chuck the thing as Numbers had done, but he set it calmly beside the notepad where it belonged, a fine accessory to Numbers' half-reply.

It had been an exercise in futility, every goddamn second of it. All attempts to adapt, to understand what he was working with, quickly pushing him past his threshold for bullshit.

Wrench wondered just how Numbers had gotten so skilled at that. They'd barely known each other for more than a few hours.

Sighing, he brushed his fingers over the indentations in the page, the amber glow from the abandoned glass of tequila not quite bright enough to illuminate their conversation. As he stared at the familiar arrangement of letters, Wrench thought of the lights overhead, the couch at his back, the warmth of the shower and the comfort of books all melting into one word, one impenetrable reality. He blinked, but it remained as undeniable as the name written beneath his fingertips, highlighted by a scribble of lines, dark and emphatic:

**NUMBERS**

His _partner._ His _home._

And maybe—for now—Wrench could convince himself that was more than enough.


End file.
